


Four Crimes

by jundoe



Category: Graceland (TV)
Genre: Father/Son Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-13 19:24:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4534230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jundoe/pseuds/jundoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he was fifteen, Grampa gave him a gun to protect himself and his mother from his Dad. There were four times Mike Warren thought about using that gun. He never did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Crimes

**Author's Note:**

> In "[The Only Place You've Known](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1771102)," I made ambiguous references to Mike's "daddy issues." This fic makes his daddy issues very unambiguous. **Warnings for non-explicit but very much stated incestuous child sexual abuse as well as physical abuse.** From the official Season 1 website, we learn some things about Mike's backstory, including: 1. "Hailing from Riverdale, NY, where Ferraris were commonplace at 16-year-old's birthday parties, Mike had to settle for piñatas and cupcakes [...] being at the lower end of the scale." 2. "Mike's father, semi-alcoholic, a Jekyll and Hyde-type dad who was equal parts lovable and despicable viewed young Mike as more of an 'obligation' than a son." 3. "At an early age, Mike was introduced to weaponry by his grandfather. Mike’s first gun was given to him by his mother’s dad for their protection; a secret Mike had to keep from his father. [...] Mike's two-faced, alcoholic father caused the need for Mike to protect himself [with a gun]." This fic takes the above as a jump-off point and runs. (Extrapolations elaborated upon in end-notes.)

1.

"Mike," Grampa had said, "I have something for you." His pale eyes fairly sparkled in his lined face, but Mike could not quite tell if it was excitement, or something else. Grampa wet his lips, and that looked like hesitation, but then his eyes hardened, and that was resolve.

"I've told your mother once, I've told her a hundred times, but she won't listen to me," he said, pushing a small box, neat and grey, with a lock under the lid, across the table. "she loves your father – she believes in him."

The disgust that licked at his words was familiar enough, and Mike nodded, cautiously, watching as the box stopped its slide right before him.

"I've been thinking about this a long time, my boy," Grampa said, reaching into his shirt pocket without looking, "you're almost a man now. You're ready."

He didn't know what it was he was ready for, but his hero's words made him feel like he was ready for anything. His chest puffed with pride as he met his pale eyes, "Yes, Grampa," he said.

"Now listen very carefully," Grampa said, pressing a key into his hand, "and never forget what I'm telling you. This is a very dangerous weapon, but also a very useful weapon. Never use it unless you have to. Always treat it with respect. Use this only to protect yourself and your mother. And, until you have to use it, never _ever_ let your father know. Promise me."

"I promise."

He unlocked the box and lifted the lid. It was a gun.

That was eight hours ago. Now he is five hours past curfew, running – frantically running – home, his backpack clutched tightly to his chest. The bus hadn't come, and he had waited, but still the bus hadn't come, and he'd had to walk to the train. Eight hours ago, he was almost a man, ready for anything. Now, he is just a fifteen year-old boy, five hours past curfew, a gun in his backpack, clutched tightly to his chest. He is frantically running. It is 3 o'clock on a Sunday night. Dad would be home by now, and there is only one thing Dad does on a Sunday night. He leaps the stairs to the porch. The first thing he hears is actually Mom, crying softly somewhere inside the house. Then the door swings open, and there is only Dad.

"There you are," the words are dark and rough, growled with the edge of a slur; his rumpled clothes are heavy with barroom smoke, his breath is heavy with beer, "you little bitch."

Some part of him cringes, the way it always does, when he calls him that.

"The bus didn't come," he starts, but the fist is already swinging, and he crashes to the worn patio. He rolls over onto his side, curling around his backpack in an instinctive ball.

"What time is it, huh?" he hears past the blood roaring in his ears, "what time is it?"

Then the next punch lands, and the next, and the next. Eight hours ago, he was almost a man, but now he is just a fifteen year-old boy, and the locked-up gun burns hot and heavy in his arms.

 

2.

Mom is screaming. A shrill, high, desperate, hopeless wail, punctuated by rasping sobs and the dull _thud_ of solid blows. He is screaming too, with a tad more articulation: "Dad, _stop!_ " he screams. He pushes at the iron arm that is holding her up by a cruel grip on her collar, but it doesn't budge. He wedges himself between her cowering form and the falling fist, but there is only a brief blaze of pain before he is swatted away like a gnat.

It is a monster. A monster made of booze and rage and, somewhere inside, his dad.

Mom has stopped screaming. Grampa's voice rings in the back of his head. He runs upstairs. Up, into his room, his heart beating wildly, wrenching against his chest; he throws himself onto the floor, reaches deep under his bed, and pulls out the locked box, half-rises, half-crawls to his desk, fishing out the key. It takes him three tries to fit the key into the lock, another two to turn it, and when he can finally pull the gun out of the box, his hands are shaking so badly he can barely keep it in his grip. He stares at it, his heart beating wildly, and his mind feels blank and numb. Mom is still sobbing, great, shuddering gasps of ragged sobbing. He can hear her from up here, and the faint _thud, thud_ of solid blows. He stares at the gun, his mind blank and numb.

He puts it back.

His hands no longer shaking, he locks the box, pushes it back under the bed, drops the key into the desk drawer, and races down the stairs to the kitchen. He grabs a plate and runs out to the living room, where the blows still rhythmically rain. He takes a breath, and smashes it against the hardwood floor.

Pain shoots up his leg – there are two places, he can feel, where a warm, wet trickle begins to run. More importantly, the blows have stopped. Dad is staring, uncomprehending, at his up-stretched arm, the outside sliced open by a lucky shard. The grip on the collar loosens; Mom drops to the floor like a sack, softly weeping. She hadn't looked up at the crash. Dad straightens, turning to face him, lurching over, slightly swaying. Porcelain shards crunch underfoot; Dad looms.

The first blow knocks him to the floor – another spot blooms at his elbow, a far-flung shard. The second and the third come almost at once, and then he stops counting because they do not stop. Blood runs into his eye and everything is red. He doesn't know whose blood it is, and he wonders if the gun might not have been better after all.

 

3.

The knob rattles and rattles, then the pounding, the door jerking, just bowed, in its frame as if, any moment now, it would break. The knob rattles. There is a roaring that starts and stops and starts again – he can't quite make out the words, but he's not exactly listening. He's cowering in a corner – the far corner, between his bed and the outermost wall – hunched over, knees drawn up, gun in his hands.

He's scared.

It's his own fault, really, it's Friday night, and Mom is at the Garden Club. He doesn't know what they do at the Garden Club – it's not really a garden, it's not really a club – but she has friends there, and it makes her happier, and sometimes Dad drinks on a Friday night, and Sunday night is hard enough on her. At first she only went once or twice a month, but it made her happier, so he started encouraging her to make it a weekly event. Now, every Friday night, Mom goes to the Garden Club, and Dad drinks every Friday night.

He's scared, and it's not because of the pain. It's not even because of – of what Dad does. Dad has always done that, now and then; he's always been scared, but not like this. Dad never used to look – really look – at him when it was now and then, not even when he was really drunk and could barely pin him down. Now that Mom goes to the Garden Club every Friday night and Dad drinks, he does look. He looks him right in the eye just before he pushes in, and what he sees there – that's what frightens him.

Because what he sees is someone who's looking at him like he isn't his own son. What he sees is someone who isn't looking at him like he's his Dad. Someone who looks like a stranger, or worse – someone who looks a little, or a lot, depending on how much he's had to drink, less than human. And that scares him so much, because this is his Dad, and he isn't always drunk, and he doesn't always hurt him, and he laughs with him, sometimes. Because this is his Dad, and he loves him.

It's really his own fault.

The door jerks, the wood shudders; any moment now, it might break. He turns the gun around in his hands, hooking his finger back against the trigger. He can barely fix the barrel through his tears, but whether blurred or focused, he knows it is a black, black hole; a one-way road. His fingers tremble finely, but his hands are steady enough. He raises the gun and closes his eyes, and closes his mouth around the cold metal.

"...Warning you," he can hear now, as the world slows down around him and the gun in his mouth, "...little bitch...warning you, Mikey... _Mike!"_

He doesn't pull the trigger. He opens his eyes, lowers the gun, takes a breath again. Puts it back into the box, locks the box, hides the box back under the bed, pushes to his feet, stumbles over to the desk to hide the key.

Then he opens the door, because, any moment now, it could break, and it'll be worse if he doesn't.

 

4.

He'd waited till she'd gone to bed before he'd stolen out to the bins behind the house, sifting through potato peels for that flash of sleek silver. She still believes in Dad, he'd thought, Grampa's words from so long ago drifting through his head.

"Just in case, Mom," he'd wheedled, "you know how to use it. Just in case he – it goes too far. When I'm not around."

He'd begged. She'd cried, and cried, and pushed him out of the kitchen. Crouched behind the door, he could hear her still crying, the click of the releasing magazine, the periodic clatter of bullet after bullet hitting the counter. Now, skulking through the rubbish like a thief, he digs and digs, but he can't find a single bullet, just the gun. He takes it back into the house and scrubs it clean – under the grime, it still shines brand-new.

It is almost three by the time he is all done for the night, crawling into bed, scrubbed clean himself, no loose ends dangling. Almost on cue, the door downstairs swings open and shut, and, in a moment, heavy footsteps are thudding up the stairs. He hasn't locked his door. Tomorrow morning he will have to get up early for the train, all his bags packed up for college, a new chapter of his life. Tonight, it is still Sunday, and there is only one thing Dad does on a Sunday night.

He pretends to be asleep when Dad comes in, but he knows he isn't fooling anyone, and it wouldn't have mattered anyway. A rough hand pushes under his shirt and pulls it up. The air around them reeks of alcohol. He barely stifles the whimper that bubbles in his throat at the rasp of the hot, dry tongue, but he flinches, anyway, and there is a mocking chuckle.

"For old time's sake," the words are low and slurred, muffled as his boxers are pushed down around his hips, then pulled off, "for your old Dad.

"You're a big boy now, huh?"

He turns his head to a side, blinking away the prickling tears. He spreads his legs for him to push in, but refuses to look into those eyes. He lies there, unmoving, as the bed rocks, springs squealing, and he thinks of the gun, cleaned and empty, locked away in its box – in a safe, this time, now that he's leaving – with all the other little gifts that Grampa has given him over the years. He was never going to use that gun, he thinks, as the fire burns up to his spine. He could never have shot his dad.

 

* * * * * * *

 

When he comes home for the first time after graduating from Quantico, his own gun – his own, actual, FBI-issued gun – in his backpack, that is the first time he's had a gun around his father in years. For the first few visits back from college, it was as if nothing had changed, and there were nights he'd found himself half-wishing that Mom hadn't discarded the bullets, that he could have somehow bought more bullets, that the unfired gift wasn't just an empty shell, double-locked away, still gleaming, in a safe, never to be used. But over time, as he got – he didn't know what – too old? Too strong? Too skilled? the _incidents_ faded away, and even the occasional drunken swings eventually stopped. He'd worried about his mom, incessantly, relentlessly, at first, but even on her, there came to be no more bruises. He'd wondered then, and he still wonders, if it had really all been his fault, after all.

It has been so many years. He is back from Quantico now, a bona fide FBI agent now, with his own gun in his bag, a gun he could do anything with, anything he wants, he is _that_ good. He wouldn't even have to hurt him much – it'd always hurt, of course, but he could just fire to clip, just a graze that would heal in days, a warning. He'd always known, on some level he'd never really wanted to acknowledge, as a kid, as a teen, that if he'd fired the gun that his grandfather gave him, it'd have fired to kill. But it's different now, he's an adult, a Federal agent. If his dad tries anything...anything at all...

...But of course he doesn't. Dad reaches out to shake his hand, and it feels like shaking hands with a stranger; the smile on his face doesn't reach his eyes. And what he sees in them is someone who looks at him like he isn't his own son, like he's not his Dad, someone who isn't the slightest bit interested in what he sees before him, someone who looks cold, and so distant, who looks a little, or a lot – it feels like a lot – less than human.

And he's sad to find that it still hurts him to know his father never even had to fuck him to hold that look.

That night, at his great celebratory dinner – Mom had pulled out all the stops – his dad isn't even there, and he's no longer surprised. It hadn't felt like he was around much, anymore.

"I'm sorry, Mikey, your father had a meeting crop up," Mom coos. He can hear from the flat, placid tone of her voice that she no longer believes in him, but neither does it bother her that she doesn't; she is content.

"I know, Mom," he says, and smiles a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, "I know, it's fine.

"It's great."

 

**END**

**Author's Note:**

> Some likely conclusions we may draw from the facts presented in the opening notes: his grandfather gave an underaged Mike a gun (if he'd been of legal gun-carrying age, he'd already be in college, and unlikely to be living with his parents at the point, thus rendering "their" - presumably Mike and his mother, given that his grandfather was phrased at the point as "his mother's dad" - protection moot), and his father was probably abusive - to the degree that it could be stated "Mike's two-faced, alcoholic father caused the need for Mike to protect himself [with a gun]". If these conclusions hold, we can see that the important adults in young Mike's life have all failed him: his father is clearly delineated as a poor parent, "semi-alcoholic," "Jekyll and Hyde," "equal parts lovable and despicable," "viewed young Mike as more of an 'obligation' than a son" - and presumably an abusive person his wife and child could have needed gun-protection from. His mother, for whatever reasons, kept herself and her child with a semi-alcoholic, presumably abusive husband, from whom she was probably unable to protect either herself or her child, considering her own father's instructions to her son. And then there's his grandfather, whom Mike "held in high regard". Who gave a child or youth a gun with the probable expectation that he should shoot his dad to protect himself, or, even more desperately, the gifter's daughter, his mom. No wonder you're so okay with people being assholes to you, Mikey, you probably don't know the difference, you sad little probably-abused kid with a dysfunctional upbringing, you. As far as this fic is concerned, I'm not saying in the slightest I think it's what happened, but I do just generally think it's sad that whatever Mike's dad was doing warranted potential gun-protection, that Mike's grandfather could have put that burden on his young grandson, and that even with whatever it was that was happening, his family is still technically together and his dad is still a factor in his plans. Such very sad yet relatively mundane tragedies. And that they hardly even brush past any of this in the show itself though it would give some really poignant context to some of his frustrating onscreen inclinations (cue long discussion [here](http://wallshipjournal.tumblr.com/post/126209527064)). That's all.


End file.
